


Not-Quite-Friendsgiving

by bareunloveliness



Category: Spring Awakening - Sheik/Sater
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-25
Updated: 2018-11-25
Packaged: 2019-08-29 00:58:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16733991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bareunloveliness/pseuds/bareunloveliness
Summary: In which our favorite group of Not-Quite-Friends have to ask themselves what's worse: a political debate or a food fight?





	Not-Quite-Friendsgiving

**Author's Note:**

> I'm really struggling with getting enough words for NaNoWriMo, so enjoy some weird Thanksgiving shit. Thanks to the Michaels on Twitter for giving me ideas.

"Absolutely not." Ilse shook her head as she layered her plate high with mashed potatoes. "Bold of you to even assume that I have anything to be thankful for in the first place."

"There has to be  _ something! _ " Ernst insisted. "You just have to name one thing, and then we go around the table. 

The table. Featuring a large array of dishes that the group of not-quite-friends had each made, it held up a surprising number of pasta salads and chicken wing dip. If it wasn't for Anna, there wouldn't even be a turkey. A few seats were unfortunately empty, as the guests couldn't sneak away from their family celebrations. This didn't stop under the table texting, especially between Melitta and the absent Martha Bessel. Nobody wanted to know the nature of such messages, except maybe Melchior.

"Nope!" she said, mouth full of the buttery, garlicky goodness. Moritz made the potatoes and he preferred to whip them instead of leaving them chunking and he went overboard on the garlic powder every year. Ilse wouldn't want it any other way. Except maybe cheese, she wouldn't be opposed to cheesy potatoes. "You can't make me!"

"We can skip her," Hanschen offered as a solution, resting a hand on Ernst's leg under the table. "What are you thankful for, Wendla?"

"Is it a total cliche if I say my friends?" She wrinkled her nose, quietly nibbling on one of the many pasta salads, the easiest dish to make even if it wasn't Thanksgiving-specific. She had a variety of them on her plate, none of them touching each other. "Or is that just a given?"

"I think that one's a given. I hope we're all thankful for each other," Ernst decided. In contrast to Wendla's neatly sorted pastas, every food on his place rushed against each other, cranberry sauce dribbling into his turkey which leaked into his potatoes and so on. 

Wendla paused, trying to think of something a little bit better. "I'm thankful for all this pasta salad, certainly, and it might be strange to say, but I'm thankful for all the teas that I've tried this year." She made it her goal to take each one of her not-quite-friends to a different cafe and order tea with them. They would select whatever flavor they wanted and she would get the same. She almost always loved it, except, most notably, the black tea that she got with Georg. He happened to be missing as well from this event, although he didn't have a girlfriend at the table to update him on the drama.

Speaking of drama, there wasn't much happening as people were hardly talking, too focused on eating. It was a mostly quiet few minutes after the food was served. If you weren't eating yourself, it would have been a horrible sound of a mashup of disgusting chewing sounds. But if you were eating, you were too focused on your food to care.

Once plates began to be clean, some of the not-quite-friends loaded seconds onto their plates, while Melchior sat at the head of the table, the smile of the devil's advocate playing on his cranberry stained lips. He was silent through the prayer and thankfulness. It was all too spiritual for him, of course, but nobody was going to be the one to tell Ernst that he couldn't pray. Frankly, they were a little scared to.

"So, who did everyone vote for?"

Ilse groaned, although she should have seen the question coming from a mile away. They had all graduated the year before and other than (ironically) Melchior and Thea, they were all old enough to vote in the previous election. It was midterms, but important as ever. "We're not getting into this, I swear to God, I will fling mashed potatoes at you."

"Really, Melchi, I have to agree with Ilse," Moritz said. "You ask us every year and every year you shame us for our choices no matter what they are. Somehow, you'll find a flaw."

"That's because you all mindlessly vote for the blue candidates without stopping to consider third parties! I don't expect you to turn red all of a sudden, sure, but it wouldn't kill you to ponder the views of the libertarians!" Melchior ranted, and Hanschen rolled his eyes so dramatically that Ernst feared they would pop out of his head.

"I get that you have a hard-on for Gary Johnson," Hanschen said as he earned a high five from Melitta, who didn't even look up from her feverish texting to complete such a task. She ate maybe three dinner rolls and nothing else, saving room for iced coffee with Martha after they both managed to escape their hellish meals. "But you can stuff it up your turkey, dude. We're not getting into it this year."

"Truly, none of you are any fun." Melchior pouted, not unlike a child who didn't get the right color bike on Christmas morning. Wendla couldn't help but wonder if he would even agree to celebrate Christmas with his parents this year, considering such religious origins.

Anna raised an eyebrow, deciding to speak a few fateful words that she did not truly understand the power of until they were spoken, ringing in the air for a moment as they were processed by a table of not-quite-friends with raging hormones and unresolved tension and anger at anything in their lives that breathes.

"What about a food fight?"

To what should be no one's surprise, Ernst fired the first shot, a spoonful of Thea's pasta salad that heavily featured spinach and mayo for reasons he didn't care to find out. Perfectly on target from years of baseball, the revolting concoction landed in a glob in Melchior's perfect, curly hair.

"You are the most immature lot I've ever-"

Everyone's favorite radical atheist was a popular target as Ilse launched a fistful of whipped potatoes at him, missing his head and splattering the wall like you see in movies. "Fuck!" It was an expression of giddy delight at the almost crude looking image of Moritz' potato magic hanging on the wall and of disappointment that they hadn't choked Melchior. 

"Christ on a cracker, let's fucking do this," Melchior said, taking the largest bowl of pasta salad from Wendla's side of the table, claiming it for his own. Thea reached over for a handful, flinging it at Melitta.

"I'm trying to sext my girlfriend and you want to throw rotten salad at me? Bitch?"

"I worked hard on that!" Otto jeered, smudging a hunk of cranberry sauce in Melitta's hair as he sat next to her. Instead of socking him in the jaw like she wanted to, she stuffed a hunk of turkey into his mouth and shoved him aside. Turkey really did taste like napkins and the murder. That's a lot to unpack though, so let's just throw out the whole suitcase, not unlike the way that Hanschen threw a blob of chicken wing dip directly at Moritz, who let out a startling shriek.

"Nope, absolutely not, I am out of here!" He fled the room, possibly crying and possibly just reacting to the buffalo sauce seeping into his eye. Don't think too hard on that.

Ernst gasped. "You made Moritz cry!"

"Moritz always cries," Hanschen rolled his eyes as he watched a serving of something brown fling from Wendla to Ilse. 

A sob escaped from the eldest boy in the other room. "That's not true!"

Thinking fast, Ernst picked up the entire turkey with his bare hands and plopped it onto Hanschen's head. Was it realistic? No, of course not. Was it the truth? Unfortunately for Hanschen, yes. I wouldn't tell you if he didn't do it.

"Ernst, I swear to fucking God, did you just shove my head up a turkey's ass?"

At that moment, the splattering of food had come to a sudden stop, as most were too afraid, mesmerized, or snapchatting to Martha to continue. 

Eyes slowly turned to Anna, who had slaved away in front of her oven for hours to prepare that herself, by hand. "That's the best damn use of a turkey I've ever seen- I don't know what you're all looking at me for," she said after a solemn moment, bursting out laughing. "You look hot, Little Hansi."

"If I could see you right now, I would strangle you. Ernst, take it off."  
"I don't know, Hansi, you look pretty g-"

"Take it off or I'm staying with Otto for the holidays."

Ernst's fingers hitched onto the puckered outside of the turkey, pulling it off in a swift movement. Hints of stuffing in his hair and unfortunately hints of his hair in the turkey, Hanschen breathed heavily for a moment, as he might have been slowly suffocating. Again, don't think too hard on that. His face was covered in a thin layer of gravy and sweat, which Ernst found oddly attractive and/or erotic.

Seriously, don't think too hard on anything in this. The not-quite-friends were a strange group, if you couldn't tell.

"Okay, so maybe this was worse than the political debate," Melitta commented, handing her brother a napkin so he could wipe the feast off of his face. "Just maybe."

"Flint still doesn't have clean water," Wendla pointed out. "And Jeff Bezos is a piece of shit."

Ilse pretended to tear up. "I've taught her so well."

"Regardless," Thea stood up, pushing her chair in. "I don't think we're going to have a Friendsgiving next year."

Moritz popped in from the other room, a thin smirk on his face. "Bet."

**Author's Note:**

> As always, send me requests or comments below or on Tumblr @honeybeebecki.


End file.
